


Through Fire

by My_Lady_Lune



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Depression, Gen, Nightmares, No one knows how to help him, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Tags to be added, thomas is a mess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:48:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23407057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Lady_Lune/pseuds/My_Lady_Lune
Summary: It wasn't like being saved flipped a switch in his mind, and suddenly his life was as bright and shiny as everyone else's. He was not happy to be alive; after all, what was the point of it all, if not to avoid this next bit, altogether?
Comments: 9
Kudos: 79





	1. Chapter 1

The sea air stung his skin and lungs, salt settling on his lips and cold seeping into his bones. Thomas tugged his coat tighter around himself. The rickety pier beneath his feet creaked ominously as he walked. On either side of him were boats, small but sturdy. Each belonged to someone; there was nothing to indicate to whom they belonged, but somehow Thomas just  _ knew _ . He looked to the one he was passing on his right, and knew that it was the Bateses’. On his other side, one for the Carsons. A cluster of boats farther ahead belonged to the family. 

Moving forward and keeping an eye out for his own boat, Thomas eventually reached the end of the pier. Knowing he must have missed his own, Thomas turned around, only to find that he wasn’t alone, as he’d thought. People that he knew, and knew him, were all there and finding their own boats. The Bateses had already settled comfortably into theirs. Andy, in another, Helped Mrs. Patmore step into one which already held Daisy and Mr. Mason. Jimmy sat alone in his own, and quite happily so, with his chin held high. The family were closest to where Thomas was standing, their boats of course being at the front of the procession. Lord and Lady Grantham say elegantly in theirs, quite content in one another’s company. Lady Mary, Lady Edith, and Mr. Branson, along with their children, were in another all together. The Dowager Countess and Mrs. Crawley had their own, and while Mrs. Crawley looked quite interested in whatever lie ahead, the Dowager was aloof, sitting on a cushion and holding a parasol even though it was quite overcast. Thomas even saw, quietly but surely, Mr. Matthew Crawley standing on one, holding out a hand to Lady Sybil, both looking more serene and healthy than life had aver allowed. 

They were not the only ghosts. As Thomas made his way back up the pier, he saw William in the boat behind his widow and his father. Edward Courtney was unaccompanied, but gone were the creases between his brows and the scars around his eyes, and his clear blue eyes looked forward, focused, toward the horizon. 

Visions of the dead had not startled Thomas. What did was the discovery that the pier lead nowhere; there was no land, no place to go but forward, and with only one way to do so. Alone in the middle of the swelling sea, and Thomas had once again failed to find his boat. 

With budding panic, Thomas turned once again only to find that many of the boats had already set off. All were full--there was no place for Thomas, no boat to a better place after all. He hurried to those he could still reach. Jimmy was just untying his little boat from the dock. “Jimmy! Jimmy,” he called, but Jimmy did not answer him, even though they were so near. “jimmy please, let me go with you! Can I--” but Jimmy was off, paying no mind to Thomas. 

Thomas watched, wretched, and then he realized that the waves, which had been a short way below the pier before, were now lapping at his shoes. The pier was sinking;  _ he _ was sinking. 

Frantic, Thomas rushed forward. “Andy!” Their boat was already off, but close enough that Thomas was sure he could make it on if only someone said he could. But they didn’t pay him any attention either. Thomas kept calling out, to anyone still within earshot; Alfred and Ms. O’Brian, though he wasn’t sure if they’ve let him on in any case; Philip, and a beautiful woman Thomas didn’t know and a beautiful child that filled in many blanks; Phyllis and Mr. Molesley, for if anyone was going to save him it was surely them, surely her.But no one stopped. 

Gasping, Thomas ran a hand through his hair and blinked rapidly. A noise behind him alerted him that he was yet to be totally alone. He turned, seeing that Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes had taken their time getting settled and Mr. Carson was only how undoing the knot holding them to the pier. Heart in his throat, Thomas waded through the water--just above his knees, now--”Mr Carson,” he began. “Please. Please, I have no way off of this, this--” Mr. Carson wasn’t listening to him either, and perhaps it was because he was Thomas’ last chance or perhaps it was just that is was Mr. Carson, but some measure of anger intruded on Thomas’ fear, and he reached out to grab the man’s arm. “Mr. Carson!” he barked, and his hold on the older man was bruising. Mr. Carson did, indeed, look at him then, as though he were surprised that Thomas would dare pull such a stunt. Thomas realized with dread that he was looking far up at the man, as the pier was quite a ways underwater and Thomas was  _ sinking _ .

Mr. Carson raised his bushy eyebrows and waited to hear what Thomas had to say, but what could Thomas say? Surely if the man had any inclination to save him he’d have done so already. It wasn’t as though Thomas’ impending fate was a mystery. Gasping for words Thomas cold only say, again, “ _ Please. _ Please, help me.”

But Mr. Carson did not, and Mrs. Hughes had not noticed Thomas at all, and then their boat was untied and sailing away with all the rest. 

For a moment, Thomas could only stare after them, uncomprehending of his situation on a primal level. No one, no one,  _ no one… _

Then his feet began to move. Trudging through the swelling water, he ran as best he could after the boats, shouting for someone to turn back, to look at him, to tell him why, and the water was up to his chest--and then he stepped off the edge of the submerged pier, and he plunged below the surface. 

It was dark, and icy, and disorienting, and Thomas could not find his way back to the surface. At last, as his lungs began to sting, he broke through the waves and gasped in lungfuls of air. He blinked salt water from his eyes only to see, with building horror, that the water was no longer the deep witching-hour black, but a horrid, heavy red, which stained his clothes and skin and dripped into his eyes. He smelled copper, tasted it in his mouth. 

Hopeless, terrified, Thomas swam after the fast-disappearing boats, now silhouetted against the horizon. But there was no hope of catching up to them. He would not be calling after them either, for even if he was sure no one would listen, he was very out of breath and had none left to lend to a shout. His gasps and pants and sobs might have, once or twice, formed in the shape of a plea, or a name, but what good would that do, really. 

Something dragged Thomas back under the blood, and he swallowed a mouthful of the horrible liquid. He tried to swim back up, but he couldn’t, he couldn’t, and he wasn’t supposed to. Whether it was a currant which held him under or a pair of hands clamped around his ankles pulling downward, Thomas couldn’t rightly tell, but then he supposed, distantly, that it didn’t really matter. Primal instinct drove him to keep struggling for freedom long past the point at which he knew he’d lose, and at length, his body began to fail him. His lungs burned, and his muscles shook, and his head felt like it did when it had been slammed into a wall, over and over and over. And then he stopped. Everything stopped. 

* * *

Thomas awoke in the same manner that lightning struck, and if there had been any strength in his body at all, he’d have launched himself clear off the matress. As it was, he was only able to sit up straight and then feel immediately woozy from it. A pair of arms wrapped around him from the side, lean and feminine, and someone hummed words into his ear as they lay him back down. Awareness was already fading again, and the room he was in was dark, but Thomas was sure he knew exactly where he was and what had happened, because his wrists stung and burned and pulled, telling him that he was still living; and there was someone here caring for him, or pretending to, which might indicate death in itself but not if Thomas had gone to Hell, which is where he was sure he was bound, so he must be alive after all. 

And that was wrong. That was very, very wrong. 


	2. Chapter 2

Mrs. Hughes was hovering, and every time she came up to see him her smile made him angry. Every time those feelings arose, he hated himself, because of all the people in Thomas’ life who deserved his ire, she was not one of them. Only three days gone and she came up with his meals--that he couldn’t eat--thrice daily, and sat with him and Ms. Baxter for a while each time. 

And Ms. Baxter. God in heaven, he could not bare to look at her, speak to her. She cared so much for him, and spent her days at his bedside, reading to him and trying to feed him. She’d managed it a few times, when he was unable to bother fighting her, and each time he felt like a puppet of porcelain. 

How either woman found the time to be there at all was a mystery. 

However unbearable Mrs. Hughes and Ms. Baxter were, they were small change compared to Anna. Anna Bates, who had decided, upon him opening up his veins, that they should now be friends. She brought him tea sometimes, and sat with him when Ms. Baxter needed to step out; and she was entirely incapable of sitting in silence with him. She brought with her news from downstairs, and upstairs, and sometimes she talked about her baby, which was painful on a different level than the rest, which she was entirely unaware of. She had the gall to try to share her excitement. “You’re so good with the children, Mr. Barrow,” she’d said to him, at one point. “I’d love for you to meet him, when he’s born.”

Liar. 

* * *

Andy, who had been absent in those first few days, was the one who volunteered to help him bathe on the fifth day after. Thomas didn’t much care that he’d started to stink. If things had gone as he’d have liked them to, he’d be smelling much worse by now, but nobody would care because he’d be dead and buried and out of the way. 

He mustered the energy to say as much to Andy, and the younger man lost his facade of cheer in a blink. As Andy shaved him--with a razor Thomas didn’t recognize--the lad looked close to tears. Thomas didn’t feel bad about that, but he knew that he probably should. For that reason, and the fact that he was exhausted, Thomas didn’t say anything else. 

* * *

  
  


Thomas spent more time thinking about his father in the last week than he had for the last decade. It came to him, one night when he was lying awake and exhausted in his bed. 

_ I should’ve smothered you in your cot _ , his father had said to him once.  _ Look what you’re doing to this family. _

Thomas had never worked out how normal people could tell about him; but whatever the reason, his parents had cottoned on quick, maybe before even him, and if God’s condemnation wasn’t enough to send Thomas to Hell, than Nathaniel Barrow would do it himself. It was after Thomas was born that his mother had gotten sick, and never quite recovered. When she died, it was Thomas’ fault; it was punishment, his father said.

_ I should’ve smothered you in your cot. _

On the spare bed in Andy’s room, he could hear the other man snoring softly into his pillow. Thomas listened for a while, trying to hear his own shallow, lucid breathing in harmony. Then, Thomas stopped. He closed his eyes and counted. Lost to himself at seventy-four, and swallowed an involuntary breath. He tried at once to calm himself, hoping to avoid waking Andy. When he was sure once again that the other man was fast asleep still, Thomas tried again; this time, he brought a hand up to cover his mouth and pinch his nose shut, and started counting. He only made it to sixty-one the second time, though whether he’d lost control or just lost his nerve, he couldn’t tell. 

In any case, he’d tired himself out, and darkness smothered him anyway.

* * *

  
  


Thomas hadn’t gone downstairs, and likely would not for a while yet, but he thought about it every time Mrs. Hughes or Anna brought him a tray of food he wouldn’t eat, or tea that would go cold. He wondered about the world outside of his little room, what it must feel like to be part of it. The world cared little for one downed man, and kept on spinning merrily along. Anna told him that Lady Mary was to be married after all, and Andy was speaking so much of Daisy that they couldn’t be far behind, really. And he was coming along in his reading, as well; he’d read passages from the books in Thomas’ room. Thomas tried to pay attention, when he did. 

The way Thomas had it figured, there were some people who were simply meant to be like the characters in those books, who learned and grew and overcame trials, and sometimes ended up better in the end. Lady Mary certainly was one. Bates must be, as well, and Branson. The lot of them, really, who had lived lives that meant something, at the end of the day. Phyllis, who had overcome abuse and prison and hadn’t lost her sweetness; Andy, who worked hard and long to better himself and learn, and who was already a fine young man, besides; Mrs. Hughes, who had risen to a point of experience and respect in the house to be able to be a mentor and a leader, and who had found fulfillment in her profession and her personal life, alike, without having to sacrifice one for the other. 

That wasn’t him though, was it? He was one of the peripheral characters, the ones that served only to further the hero’s journey. He was the dastardly thief, there to serve as a foil, or else he was the ghost that haunted the halls. Whether he was despised or pitiable, he was always the monster. Always the one to fall for the good of everyone else. Or not fall, as the case may be. 

They’d burned him out like the debridement of a wound when he was toxic like poison, and then they’d kept him alive when he was suffering like a wretch. But not for his benefit. They all played their part perfectly, the little heroes, and saved him because they were supposed to. 

It wouldn’t have mattered if it had been him, or the gardener, or the King himself. Thomas had served his part in the plot of their story, conveniently much closer than His Majesty, and Thomas couldn’t fault them, really, for doing what they did. If playing the hero had been his lot in life, he’d have happily done it, too. 

* * *

  
  


After that first time, Lady Mary had yet to visit him again, though Anna insisted that she asked after him every day. But that was all right. Nanny would sometimes drop off Master George at Mary’s insistence, and the lad would be sweet as can be and settle in patiently at Thomas’ side, propped up against him and the lumpy pillow, ready for a story. This week’s pick was  _ Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens. _ Master George, determined to help Thomas feel better and knowing that a story would help him feel so, insisted on reading short passages when the feeling struck him. He was doing well, for his age--that is, he could manage most of the monosyllabic words and gave those with two syllables a good try. Faerie tales, fanciful as they were, were always a bit of a bother because they twisted language to match the tale. Often times, by the time the children had worked through a passage, Thomas would read through it all again, because everyone had lost the plot by then. Thomas didn’t mind; it kept the story going for longer, with all he had to explain things. And these little moments were, for longer than he cared to think, the only moments of peace he knew. 

George, brow furrowed in concentration, had a finger on the page in intense focus. “...w-hat..t-h…”

“That’s a ‘t’ and ‘h’ together, Master George, so what sound does that make?”

George made the correct noise. “That’s right,” Thomas said with a tiny smile.

George nodded, satisfied. “Thhhey. W-hat thhey..say is ‘We...feel…’ what’s that word, Mr. Barrow?”

“‘Dancey’. ‘David tells me that faeries never say ‘We feel happy’: what they say is, ‘We feel dancey’.”

George giggled. “What’s it mean?”

Fair question; Thomas wasn’t entirely sure it was a real word at all. “Well, I suppose it means that they feel like dancing.”

The child gave that a good think. “I think Sybbie feels dancey a lot.”

Thomas himself almost chuckled at that. “Yes, I think she might. Do you?”

“Hmm.” He put a finger to his chin, the way Lady Grantham did when she made a show about thinking about his very-good-questions. “I don’t think so. I think I feel singy instead.”

“Well, I’d say that’s just as nice.”

George beamed and cuddled closer to him, comfortable against the threadbare blankets and with Thomas’ arm draped over his shoulders. He was such a dear child, and Thomas always marveled at that. Sybbie was tenacious and charismatic, and lovely in her own way in equal measure, but if anyone was to draw up the perfect child, it would be George. He was an angel, and not only because he seemed to love Thomas Barrow. He was quite like Mr. Matthew, in many ways, but he didn’t show any signs of his late father’s selective impatience; for as much as Thomas had come to respect Mr. Matthew, the man wasn’t the best at hiding his annoyance. George, Thomas was quite sure, had never felt annoyed in his young life.

If Thomas where to have a child, they’d be nothing like this. They’d have black hair and a scarecrow nose; and they’d have to be a terror, raised by Thomas and whatever woman was mad enough to marry him. They’d not be precious to anyone but him. Like Thomas had been to his mother.

But perhaps Master George would not have minded, and made friends with them anyway. He was Thomas’ most steadfast friend, after all. The thought, silly as it was, thawed something inside Thomas’ chest, just a little, and he leaned down to kiss George’s downy blond hair. 

* * *

  
  


That night, Thomas dreamt of a little boy, too thin, with dark hair and a crooked smile. 

When he awoke, hours before dawn, he turned his face into his pillow and sobbed until his lungs ached.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was, as you can see, a sort of jumbled compilation of thoughts Thomas had in the interim between his attempt and rejoining the house. I meant for it to be a little messy and confusing; I hope I didn't confuse you all too much. 
> 
> Thank you for reading

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Tumblr [@mr-barrow](https://mr-barrow.tumblr.com/) !


End file.
